Refuge
by luvsanime02
Summary: Clint doesn't care if a horde of zombies comes pouring out of this cabin. He's still going inside.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Marvel comics or characters or movies, and am making no money off of this fic.

**AN: **Written for the October 26th Spooktober prompt: cabin in the woods.

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**Refuge** by luvsanime02

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Of all the places to stumble across while injured and bleeding, did the universe really have to present Clint with a mysterious-looking cabin in the woods? This is like the start of every bad horror movie ever.

That doesn't mean Clint isn't going to check out the cabin. He's injured and freezing cold, and if the place has heating, Clint doesn't care if a horde of zombies is in there, or a family of cannibals. He's going in anyway.

Clint does make sure to have his bow ready, because he's cautious, but when he knocks, there's no answer. Doesn't mean no one's home.

Slowly, Clint jiggles the door handle, trying not to make any sound. The probability of there actually being a zombie or a cannibal behind the door probably isn't very high, but the probability of some hard-of-hearing old person with a loaded shotgun for Clint to surprise would be just his luck, really.

The door's locked, and so Clint gets out a small piece of wire that he keeps just for times like this and quickly unlocks it. No alarms sound that Clint can hear, so at least there's probably not a security alarm for him to dismantle, too.

Clint's banking too much on maybes today, but he doesn't have the luxury of being too paranoid right now.

Clint opens the door, waits a full thirty seconds but doesn't hear anything coming from inside, and enters the cabin. The floorboards creak ominously, of course, and Clint tries to redistribute his weight to make the least amount of noise possible.

He stays in the front room and calls out again, making sure to sound friendly but tired. Clint _is _tired. So tired that he wants to drop to the floor right this second and pass out, but that would be dumb for several reasons.

Still no answer. Alright, then. Clint eases the door closed and re-locks it, and begins a sweep of the place. For a cabin out in the woods, it's in decent shape. There's enough dust on surfaces to reassure Clint that the place hasn't been used in a couple of months, but everything looks modern and in working order. Likely, this is a summer vacation spot for some family. Clint sees some picture frames on some tables.

Whatever. It's good enough for Clint. Anywhere would be good enough for him tonight. He would have battled a zombie horde for the chance to rest here for a few hours.

Clint finds a bathroom, and a first aid kit, which is awesome. Clint has his own, of course, but he'd really rather not waste his own supplies when he can just use someone else's. Carefully, Clint peels his tac vest and then undershirt off, wincing at the pull of torn flesh.

The slash wound on his shoulder starts bleeding again when Clint tears the drying fabric away from the blood. It hurts like a motherfucker, but Clint just lets out a long, controlled breath and examines the cut. It's going to need stitches, he determines after a few tense moments.

Well, Clint's not doing that to himself if he doesn't have to. He gets out some iodine and gauze and tape, and some liquid stitches from his own supply, and applies it all to his shoulder, hoping like hell that he won't have to use his bow again until a doctor can fix the wound up properly.

He rolls his shoulders experimentally, cataloging the drag of his injury and his current range of motion. It will have to do.

Briefly, Clint debates trying to find something to eat in the cabin, but settles for drinking some water from the faucet and then shuffling into the master bedroom, lying down on top of the covers. He can rest here for a little while, hopefully with no interruptions from zombies, or from the people who are even now searching for him.

With that last cheerful thought in mind, Clint slips quickly into a light slumber.

The next morning, Clint leaves the cabin exactly as he left it. Well, as much as he can. He does tape a note to the front door, explaining the reasons for the diminished first aid supplies and disturbed bedroom. Of course, Clint doesn't mention anything except that he was alone and injured, and appreciated the help.

Maybe the people who own the cabin wouldn't have noticed anyway, maybe they would have, but Clint still feels better by leaving the note as he walks away.


End file.
